Lonely Blue
by scary-blue
Summary: A year after the events of the musical, Roger is living with Mimi in her apartment. On a cold winter's night, can she convince him to go down a road he thought he had left far behind? based on the movie cast's interpretations of characters. Rated T because I'm paranoid.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Mimi? Are you home?" The door banged as Roger kicked it closed with his heel. The apartment was freezing, and he made a move to light a fire, all the while wondering where his girlfriend could be. Roger had moved in with Mimi almost six months ago, and now that Christmas was approaching once more he found himself excited about the holidays for the first time in … well, for a long time. He had been busking all day; his finger ached from the combination of endless guitar playing and relentless cold, but he was happy. If he had calculated correctly, he had now earned enough to buy a real present for Mimi – a coat, maybe, or a new scarf. He was cutting it fine, he knew – Christmas was less than a week away – but he could shop tomorrow and sort everything out.

Roger jumped as the forgotten match in his hand burnt his fingers, and he quickly dropped it in the old, slightly singed garbage can alongside the old newspapers and crumpled sheet music. He angrily stuck his fingers in his mouth to ease the searing heat, hearing the door hit the wall as it opened behind him. He brought his hands to his sides, ignoring the throbbing pain as he stepped forward to embrace the girl he loved. Mimi raised her face to Roger's as he leant in for a kiss. It was gentle and tender, something neither of them had experienced much before they formed their relationship together, and Roger found it surprisingly enjoyable. However, when Mimi reached down to take his hand, he couldn't stop himself from instinctively flinching and pulling away.

Mimi followed Roger into the room as he walked away and sat down heavily on their ratty sofa.

"Baby? What's wrong?" Mimi asked, concern in her voice. "Did I hurt you?" The sadness and guilt in her warm eyes were more than Roger could bear and he rushed to comfort her.

"No! Of course not Meems! It's all my fault." Mimi visibly relaxed at the reassurance as Roger continued. "I did a stupid thing. Didn't realise how quickly those damn matches burnt. It's nothing." As much as he kept talking, he could tell that his girlfriend was going to continue staring at him with those deep eyes until he gave in and let her see. He pulled his hand out from its protective shield under his arm and held it out to Mimi, noticing for the first time how pink and shiny the tips of his thumb and index finger were.

"Oh, baby." Mimi breathed. "Stay here. I'll be right back." She stood abruptly, disappearing into the tiny bathroom at the back of the apartment and returning moments later with a box of band-aids and a bottle containing half an inch of clear liquid.

Mimi knelt in front of Roger, setting the box and the bottle down and taking his large hand in both of her small ones. She leant forward, slowly and gently kissing the tips of his burnt fingers. Roger winced as her lips came into contact with the raw skin but said nothing, allowing his girlfriend to continue her ministrations.

"Rog, baby, this is gonna hurt, 'kay?" Mimi warned, unscrewing the top of the bottle. "We've got no real stuff left, but I found a little bit of Stoli through there. I have to clean your fingers and this is the best we've got. Is that ok?" She glanced up to see Roger nod his head curtly, his teeth clenched tightly in preparation. "Ready?" She whispered. He nodded again. "3…2…1." She tipped the bottle and Roger had to bite back a yelp, hissing through gritted teeth as heat and pain flared through his hand and up his arm. Mimi paused, but Roger waved his free arm vaguely in her direction.

"Keep going." He moaned, eyes closed. "I can take it." Mimi steeled herself and poured, trying to ignore Roger's quiet sounds of pain, until the bottle was empty. She swiftly and deftly wrapped his fingers in band-aids before kissing each one once more. Looking up, she noticed that tears had sprung to both of their eyes, and she wiped the salty sadness from Roger's cheeks.

Roger's fingers continued to throb erratically. He was aware that he was being pathetic, but he didn't really care. It _hurt_, damn it! Mimi stood up, grabbing his uninjured hand and pulling him to his feet.

"Um … Meems? Where are you taking me?" She turned and smiled coyly.

"You'll see. I think I might have something to … take your mind off the pain for a while." She led him into the bedroom they shared and sat him down on the edge of the bed. As he moved to relieve himself of the broken spring he was sitting on, Mimi crossed to the window and rummaged in the small wooden box she kept there. When she turned back to face him, she was hiding something behind her back. Roger's confusion only grew as Mimi started to speak.

"Now, I know you'll probably hate me for this, and you have every right to. But, please, hear me out." She took Roger's raised eyebrow as am invitation to continue. "Believe me, I never planned to need this. I only kept it because … well, I don't really know why I kept it. But now … a little won't hurt, surely? And it'll stop your hand hurting too. So please don't hate me?" When he made no move to reply she stepped towards him, withdrawing the object the object she was concealing from behind her back. His eyes widened comically and he backed away as he saw what it was. Fully revealed and glinting in the moonlight. Deadly, but strangely beautiful. A full hypodermic syringe.

Long minutes passed in silence before Roger regained the ability to speak.

"Meems. Babe. Is that what I think it is?" Her glance towards the floor told him everything he needed to know. "Why, Meems? After we worked so hard? After you promised?"

"I kept my promise, baby." She hurried to reply. "I bought this ages ago. Before. I swear. And it's pure. I made sure. And I'll only give you a little; just enough to stop the pain. This of it as medicine if it helps." Her eyes were saucers, shining as she reasoned, almost pleaded, with him.

Roger was going mad. He had to be. He had finally, completely, lost it. He knew this for a fact, because the more the Mimi was talking, the more appealing her proposition was becoming. And that was crazy. He had worked so hard to get rid of that stuff; had lost so much because of it. But, deep down, he remembered how good it had felt. Those good times had been fantastic. But the bad ones had been horrific. April. No. Forget April. He had Mimi now. And Mimi loved him. She wouldn't let anything bad happen to him. Would she?

Before he had time to think any more, Roger found himself nodding. He took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, choosing to ignore the old scars and track marks and telling himself repeatedly that it would be fine. One time wouldn't ruin his years of hard work. He would give it all up again after tonight. It was just pain relief; nothing else.

He lay back on the bed, stretching out his arm towards Mimi. The sharp but familiar sting of the needle brought a moment of doubt, but by then it was too late. The drug was already coursing through his system, surging through his veins. He closed his eyes, basking in the glow, and felt Mimi – his Mimi – lie down next to him. Beyond that, Roger did not recall, and nor did he care. All he knew was deep, radiant happiness, the kind that had been missing for far too long, as he slid gently into a warm pool of light. Winter could wait. Tonight there was only sun, peace … and Mimi.

**Let me know what you think people. First **_**Rent**_** fic. Its been written for ages but I never got round to uploading. There are 7 chapters and it could maybe go further, but I'm going to wait a bit and see how many reviews etc I get before I type up the next chapter. Reviews are love people – I might be less mean to Roger if you review! (Maybe … Probably not!)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**So I was going to wait until I had a few more reviews before posting the next chapter, but mrsjasperhale313 left such a nice review that I figured I could leave her hanging. Hope you like …**

Roger blinked blearily back to some level of awake and groaned inwardly. His head felt like it was about to explode and his stomach churned like a boat. Rubbing his hands over his face, he wondered half-heartedly whether the sickness ha was currently experiencing was due to last night's drugs or the guilt the guilt that was gnawing at his core over what he had done. God, Mark was going to kill him when he found out. If he found out. Who said he had to find out? Roger could be cool about this; pretend it never happened. Couldn't he?

Careful not to wake the still-sleeping Mimi, Roger slid out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen. Holding the countertop for support, he leant down and snagged a bottle from their dwindling supply of beer. His pounding head grumbled at the movement, but he tried to ignore it as he staggered across the room to flop on the saggy sofa. He wasn't entirely sure that beer was what he needed right now, but it was all they had, and he figured it might dull the throbbing in his temples. Taking a long gulp from the bottle, he sighed and struggled to his feet. He had to get out of here for a while. He just … needed space to think.

Roger shrugged into his jacket, grimacing as the slight motion rattled his sensitive brain. As quietly as possible, he inched the door open and edged out of the apartment and down the stairs. Stepping outside he was hit with a blast of cold air and he looked back once, briefly, at the window behind which he knew Mimi lay, before turning and walking slowly down the street. Every shout made him wince; thinking that Mark or Mimi had followed him. But he was, blessedly, alone. He wandered aimlessly, the jarring pain in his head and the twisting of his stomach now joined by violent shudders as his body reacted to the biting cold and … something else he wasn't ready to admit yet.

A considerable amount of time passed before Roger even looked up. When he did, he wished that he had done so sooner. He had managed to meander to the park. That, in itself, was fine. He liked the park. What was not fine, however, was that the one person he did not want to see right now was heading straight for him. On that damned bike. With that damned camera. Mark. Roger tried to shrink into the shadows, but Mark had already spotted him and was now waving in his direction. Damn! He steeled himself for the coming conversation, hoping he could act calm in the face of the one person who had always been able to see right through his façade.

Mark skidded to a stop and dismounted from his bike. Roger looked up and attempted a smile, determined to control this situation.

"Hey Mark."

"Hi Roger. How's things? Mimi?"

"Yeah, great. Mimi's great." Roger mumbled, wondering how he had let Mark ask questions so quickly. His friend peered at him closely, scrutinising him from behind his glasses.

"Rog?" Ah. There was the nickname. He had no chance of clawing this back now. Mark continued. "You sure you're ok? You're a little pale. You sick or something?"

"Or something." Roger answered, not wanting to give his friend any further ammunition. Not that this worked.

"Rog. Go home if you're sick. You have to be careful. You know that. Don't be stupid about stuff like this." Mark was rambling, concern for the other man clear in his expression. "Here. Take my scarf. I'll get it back when you've kicked this cold. Or whatever it is." He unwound the scarf, a permanent fixture, placing it around Roger's neck.

Roger couldn't bear any more of Mark's 'help'. He pushed Mark's hands away roughly distantly aware that he was yelling.

"I'm FINE Mark. For God's sake, will you listen for once? Leave! Me! Alone!" He ran, cursing under his breath as his head reeled and he almost tripped over his own feet. As quickly as he could, he stumbled through the park, only stopping to catch his breath when he knew he was well out of sight of Mark. God, why was that man so infuriatingly _nice_? All he wanted was to be left alone. Was that not clear? Roger's stomach flip-flopped and he gripped the arm of a bench, breathing deep to stop the sudden feeling that he was about to throw up. As he leant forward, his eye caught a flash of blue. He was still wearing Mark's scarf. Pulling it off fiercely, he seriously considered throwing it away, but something stopped him. He sighed.

Roger sank slowly onto the bench, Mark's scarf wound tightly around both hands. He had been an idiot. If anything was going to make Mark suspicious it was being shouted at. And, now that he could think more clearly, Roger felt bad for doing it too. Mark had been his best friend since, well, forever. He would hate to give all of that up for one moment of stupidity brought about by a headache and … well, other stuff. He wrapped the scarf tightly around his neck, welcoming the warmth it brought, and jammed the hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. Something crinkled on contact, and he frowned as he pulled out a collection of crumpled dollar bills. It was the money he had earned. The money for Mimi's Christmas present.

He was about to shove the dollars back in his pocket for later when he looked up and spotted a figure in the distance. A figure he recognised. A man he hadn't particularly wanted to see, but now that he had he couldn't help but be a little bit relieved. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew exactly why he felt the way he did. This gut-wrenching, brain-drilling sensation was all too familiar, and he knew the only thing that would make it go away. He sidled up to The Man, cash in hand.

Twenty minutes later, Roger inched open his apartment door and crept inside. The Man hadn't been thrilled to see him, especially after the things Roger had done to him the last time they had crossed paths. But, after a lot of convincing - and a quick flash of the money Roger held in his fist - he had relented. Not that he was ever going to complain about a returning customer. So now Roger was, once again, broke, but he had a present for Mimi. One they could share. And one he thought she might just prefer to a coat. He knew it was wrong, and wasteful, but, really, how much more damage could it do. And last night had been fantastic.

"Mimi?" He called tentatively. His head was still spinning, but that would stop soon. Mimi stuck her head through the beads separating their bedroom from the living space.

"Hey babe." She whispered. "Um … Mark called …"

"Forget Mark." Roger interrupted. "I've brought you a present and I think you're going to really enjoy it." He held up the small package and Mimi clapped her hands, giggling like a small child at the white powder inside the tiny bag.

"Oh, baby. You know just how to make a girl happy." Roger grinned and followed Mimi back into the bedroom.

**There you go. Hope you enjoyed and that I didn't go too OOC with Roger. Chapter 3 will be up soon, but remember: reviews are life. Think of me as Roger, and reviews as AZT. I need it people! XD**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**So. I hope you liked chapter 2. On advice from mrsjasperhale313 I think I've proofread this one a bit better…**

**Mark's POV**

Pan 360° around the park. I got some decent footage today. Went over to Tent City to see how the success of Maureen's protests has affected them. They're still there for a start. So now I'm homeward bound. The park is bare in winter. There are no leaves on the trees, but it hasn't started to snow yet either. It's just cold and miserable and … wait. Close on – is that Roger? Speaking of cold and miserable. He looks freezing. In fact, he looks ill. I'd better go over and see if he's alright.

I skid to a stop beside him, determined to find out what's bugging him. He flashes me a pitiful attempt at a smile, speaking before I get a chance.

"Hey, Mark." He's quieter than usual; subdued. Something is definitely not right.

"Hi Roger." I begin, going for the subtle approach. "How's things? Mimi?" I ask cautiously, wondering if an argument has caused Roger's apparent bad mood.

"Yeah, great. Mimi's great." I can barely hear his reply. This is bigger than just Mimi, and if my best friend thinks he can pull the wool over my eyes he has another thing coming.

I look closer at Roger, studying his face and his stance. His skin is stark white in the harsh winter sun and the way he's standing … he looks like he's in pain.

"Rog." I start, all attempts at subtlety out of the window. "You sure you're ok? You look a little pale. You sick or something?" For some reason Roger can't meet my eye. Now I'm getting worried. I'm the only person he talks to about stuff like this, and if he feels like he cant even do that, then this must be huge.

"Or something." He replies dismissively.

"Rog." I warn. "Go home if you're sick. You have to be careful. You know that. Don't be stupid about stuff like this." He should know how careful he has to be. How often has he been warned about the effect the disease has on his immune system? I mean, the man watched Angel die! But instead, all I see is a flash of anger in his eyes. Well, one of us has to care, and it clearly isn't going to be him.

Roger is shivering through the leather of his jacket and I unwind my scarf. I don't need it, and he evidently does.

"Here. Take my scarf." I order. "I'll get it back when you've kicked this cold. Or whatever it is." I say hopefully, determined to remain optimistic. Roger's reaction is violent and unexpected. He forcibly removes my hands from their position on the scarf, which now lies around his neck, pushing me backwards in the process. He's shouting, but my ears don't want to hear the words. Instead, I watch his back as he runs, stumbling over his own feet, in the direction of the park, my scarf swinging.

It takes time for me to regain the ability to move, and when I do I grab my bike and pedal. Fast. Roger is far out of sight, but I'm not going after him. That's pointless. I continue in the direction I was already travelling, hoping that the one person who sees Roger more than me these days is home. Maybe she can get to the bottom of why he's acting so out of character. Mimi.

Not wanting to be hindered, I throw my bike down at the foot of the stairs. I can come back for it later. Taking the stairs two at a time, I reach the door to Mimi's – and Roger's – apartment and knock so hard it almost rattles off its hinges. Mimi answers, bleary eyed from sleep despite the fact that it's almost 3:30pm. She mutters a greeting as I try to push my way inside.

"Hi Mimi. Sorry to wake you." I apologise. "It's just … I've just bumped in Roger and he didn't look too good. Is everything alright?" If I didn't know better I would have guessed that the look on Mimi's face is … guilt? But that can't be right. I'm imagining things. She nods slowly as she replies.

"Everything is … good. Or it was last night. I haven't seen him today. Look, I'll ask him later." Is it just me, or is she trying to get rid of me? "Come back later, ok? I'll call when he gets home. Thanks for stopping by." The door shuts in my face, narrowly missing my nose, and I realise I've been dismissed.

Retrieving my bike, I climb the stairs to my apartment, thinking about the strange events of the day. Just as I dump my bike alongside to sofa, a disturbing idea occurs to me. The look on Roger's face today was familiar. I couldn't place it before because I haven't seen it for a long time. I desperately hope that I'm wrong, because the last time I saw that look was just after April died. It was the look of a determined man. A man who knew exactly what he wanted, and wasn't going to let anything get in his way. It was a look I had dreaded. If I'm wrong, praise be to whoever is listening up there. God. Buddha. Angel. If not, I might need help, because … that look? It's the look of a man on the hunt for his next hit.

**There you go. Bit of a shift in POV. It's going to go between the two for a few chapters but I'll always say at the start when it changes. Don't forget, reviews = life for the poor struggling writers of Alphabet City. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Thank you so much for the continuing support guys. Mrsjasperhale313 … I love you! Also, to the writer of the guest review … you rock! We're back to Roger for this chapter so I hope you like.**

**Roger's POV**

Three days passed in a happy, slightly blurred haze. At some point, Roger vaguely recalled pinning a soppy note to Mark's scarf and leaving it outside the apartment they used to share. He knew that the other man would probably call him out for his out-of-character sentimentality, but right now he couldn't care less. Life felt good, really good, for the first time in a long time, and nothing could ruin that. Well, nothing but his ever dwindling supply of cash. And Mark.

It was Christmas day, and Mark was holding an 'obligatory' dinner. Roger knew that he had been saving for a turkey for weeks and had hidden a bottle of Stoli in the bathroom cabinet. He had to go, or Mark really would get suspicious, but how was he supposed to sit in a room with his friends for hours on end? He was already high, for Christ's sake, and that wasn't likely to change between now and dinner. He had no gifts to give out, and no money either. He just hoped that he would be flying high enough to bring a bit of Christmas spirit to the occasion. He had to be or he was screwed. Him and Mimi both. Speaking of Mimi, the bead curtain rattled and a slender brown hand appeared, brandishing a needle. One more hit before the interminable dinner. Dutch courage.

Roger knocked on Mark's door, trying to arrange his hair and look cool and collected. He could tell he was jittery, trying not to relax into the last hit too much, but he hoped that he could pass it off as guilt because they were late. They had gotten a little … distracted … in their apartment. The door slid open, allowing Roger to pull Mimi inside. As soon as they were in Roger was talking uncontrollably.

"Sorry we're late. Mimi was getting ready, and I left my AZT behind and … crap, everybody else is already here. No, it's good. We'll sit on the floor, won't we Meems? So. Is everyone having a good Christmas? Maureen? Joanne? Collins? Hmm? Mark? Is dinner ready? Great. Let's eat! I'm starved!" Roger broke off, suddenly realising that every single person in the room – apart from Mimi – was staring at him. "What?" He asked defensively, struggling to stand back up. "It's Christmas! Lighten up!" His laugh was brittle and unconvincing, even to his own ears.

Turning his back to the group, Roger became aware that a whispered conversation was taking place behind him, but he chose to ignore it and closed his eyes. The smell of roast turkey wafted to his nostrils from across the room, causing him to smile. Footsteps echoed, travelling towards him, and a hand landed on his arm, spinning him around. The look he saw on his old friend's face was one of shock and barely concealed anger. The last time he had seen that expression he had felt terrible, disappointed and ashamed, but now, for some bizarre reason, it made him want to laugh.

"Roger." Mark hissed warningly. "Are you drunk?" That was hilarious! Drunk? That was Mark's guess?

"Hell, no." He replied, suppressing a chuckle. Mark's eyes narrowed.

"No. You're not. I know drunk Roger and you aren't him. This Roger is …" The anger in his face intensified. "Are you high?! Jesus Christ, Rog, I thought you were done with that! After last time!" Mark's voice was rising in frustration, turning shrill, and Roger couldn't hold it in any longer. He let out a peal of laughter which somehow turned into a snort of derision as he found himself snapping back at his so-called best friend.

"You never get 'done with that', Mark! 'That' is always there! It always will be! Why can't you get that through your thick skull? I want this!" The last part of this was shouted to the room at large: Maureen, looking like she might cry; Joanne, turning away to avoid eye contact; Collins, disappointment etched in his face; Mimi, his Mimi, staring up at him; and Mark, nose mere inches from his own, fury bubbling just below the surface.

"Come with me." Mark muttered darkly, before gripping Roger's arm firmly. With a strength that Roger hadn't known the wiry man possessed, Mark dragged him through the apartment and threw him bodily into the bathroom, shutting the door between them.

"Mark! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Roger launched himself at the closed door, pounding it with his fists, but Mark must have been working out because the door didn't budge. "Mark!"

"You promised, Roger!" Mark's voice was muffled through the cheap wood, but Roger could still hear the emotion it held. "You swore that you were done! You worked so hard! Damn it, Rog…" Mark's voice cracked and Roger almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.

"I told you, Mark! You don't get _done_! Never! That's not how addiction works, remember?!" They were screaming now, yelling past the door, throats growing hoarse and lungs beginning to burn.

"You had beaten it! You did so well! Are you going to throw it all away for a quick thrill? Give up what we fought for? What April died –" That was the final straw. Mark was not allowed to bring up April. Not ever. Temper flaring, Roger reached into his inner strength, slamming into the door and sending Mark flying as it sprung open. He strode across the room, blind to the disappointed faces around him, and grasped Mimi's elbow, pulling her to her feet.

"We're going home." He growled. "Now!" Mimi shrugged and followed as he disappeared out of the door and down the stairs.

Roger crashed through their apartment door and headed straight for the bedroom. Reaching for the old wooden box by the window, he tipped its contents onto the bed. He grabbed as many bags and full needles as he could and returned to Mimi, stooping to retrieve a full bottle of some kind of spirit – he didn't know or care what – on the way. The contents of his arms spilled onto the sofa as he knelt in front of it, and he picked up the bottle to take a long swig. The strong alcohol burned his already-raw throat, but he welcomed the pain.

"That guy is a complete and utter … Argh!" At a total loss for words, Roger resorted to a primal scream. "I can't take it any more, Meems. I just can't." His voice was growing steadily quieter as he downed more of the bottle. The alcohol was acting fast on his empty stomach and he knew he was really quite drunk, but it didn't faze him in the slightest. "Help me forget, Mimi? Please?" He pleaded pathetically, holding out a bag of powder and a needle to his silent girlfriend.

"Are you sure, babe?" She whispered.

"Yes." He assured her. "Very, very sure. Get drunk with me. Get high with me. It's Christmas. And drunk is lonely alone." He was slurring now, his words making little sense, but he could tell from Mimi's raised eyebrows and coy smile that she was quite enjoying this new turn of events. She took the needle from his outstretched hand and prepared his veins to receive it. He watched, his anger ebbing away, as she inserted it into his arm and depressed the plunger. Smiling lazily as the drugs worked their way into his system, he leant towards Mimi, kissing the lips that were already expectantly turned to meet his own.

"Now, let's forget together." He muttered into her cheek.

The rest of the night dissolved into a blur of booze, heroin and Mimi. The sun was rising beyond the apartment walls as they finally stumbled to bed. Roger was fading, dimly aware that he might have overdone it this time, after being clean for so long, but this thought didn't make him regret any of his actions that night. All concept of rational thought evaporated as he lost the battle with consciousness and, in his mind at least, night fell once again.

**There you go. Chapter 4. I know I sound pathetic when I repeat myself, but I hope you liked it. Don't forget to review, you lovely, lovely reviewing people that I know you all are!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Oh My God! I'm so sorry it's been so long! I have no excuses apart from the fact that I am a terrible human being! Not that this chapter is going to make it much better. This is basically the same idea as chapter 3, the same events from Mark's POV, so you might want to reread the last chapter to remind yourselves what happened. If you stuck with me so far … thank you. You're awesome. Particular shout out to MrsJasperHale313 (think I got your name right?) who I have spoken to before and who seems to not be giving up on me just yet. Thank you so much.**

**Mark's POV**

Christmas day, 1991. 5:00pm Eastern Standard Time. People will be arriving any minute. They had better all turn up, because I've been standing at my old oven all day, trying to get it to roast a turkey, and dinner is almost ready. Despite the stove, the room is still freezing, so I tighten my scarf around my neck. It reappeared on my doorstep yesterday, a note – scrawled on old manuscript paper – pinned to it. I read the note out of curiosity, expecting jokes or … I don't know, but not what I got. Hang on, it's here somewhere. Got it. It reads:

Mark,

Sorry I was an ass Marky. I wasn't myself the other

day, but I'm better now. So I brought your scarf back.

Figured you might need it in there. I remember how

cold it is up here. See you tomorrow for dinner, Marky.

Make it good!

Sorry again,

Rog

Not only is this far too girly and sappy for a note from Roger, (maybe Mimi wrote it?) I also find it strange that he didn't knock on the door. I was in, I'd have heard it. And the scarf smells weird. Like cheap alcohol and something else. Something familiar that I can't place.

The phone rings, startling me out of my reverie and reminding me that I am supposed to be making dinner. I let it ring until the answer machine kicks in: "Speeeeeeaaaaaaak." I really need to change that message; after all, Roger doesn't live here any more. The phone beeps and a familiar voice echoes through the speakers.

"It's me, bitch. Throw down the keys." I don't even bother picking the receiver up, crossing instead to the fire escape and throwing the spare keys down to Collins, waiting on the street below.

"Don't get your ass kicked." I turn back to the slightly smoking pans as Collins' voice drifts up to me.

"Wasn't funny last year. Guess what? Still not funny." I laugh and concentrate on not burning the carrots.

I hear the door slide open and look up to see Collins enter, flanked by Maureen and Joanne.

"Hey." Collins calls. "Look who I found."

Greetings exchange before Maureen chips in with a witty: "How's the housewife doing with his 'cuisine'?"

"Oh, leave him alone, Mo." Joanne taps Maureen lightly on the backside. "I think it smells fantastic, Mark. A real feast."

"Thank you, Joanne." I say pointedly. "At least _someone_ here appreciates my efforts. Now we just need Roger and Mimi. Then we can eat." Cheers greet me and I grin. Now where exactly _are _Roger and Mimi?

Twenty minutes later, dinner close to ruin but still potentially salvageable, there is a knock on the door. Roger. Why doesn't he just open the damn door? I let them in, stepping backwards as he barrels into the room. I can tell straight away that he is nowhere near back to normal. He looks edgy, nervous even, although there's absolutely no reason for him to be. Everyone in this room has known Roger for years so why is he … Unless he has something to hide. Before I can form this idea into a coherent though, Roger is talking, rambling to the room at large, but at the same time to nobody at all.

"Sorry, we're late." Yeah, we had noticed that, Rog. "Mimi was getting ready." Mimi holds up her hands behind Roger, as if refusing this blame. "And I left my AZT behind." I have some here, and he knows that. "Crap." Roger looks around for the first time. "Everybody else is already here. No, it's good. We'll sit on the floor, won't we, Meems?" Despite the fact that nobody has moved or said anything, Roger drops to the floor with a thud. Mimi remains standing. Roger keeps talking. "So. Is everyone having a good Christmas? Maureen?" she raises an eyebrow in response. "Joanne? Collins?" Silence. Stony silence. "Hmm? Mark?" He turns to me and I don't know how to react. "Is dinner ready?" I nod mutely. "Great. Let's eat! I'm starved!" Halfway to his feet, Roger stops, as if suddenly aware that all attention is on him. He stumbles upright as he speaks. "What? It's Christmas. Lighten up!" He laughs, loud and false, and turns away.

"What the hell?" Maureen whispers to me. I shrug.

"No idea." I think back to the bizarre smell on my scarf, raising it to my nose and recoiling at the stench of stale booze. I mime drinking, and the gathered group stare at me open mouthed.

"Drunk?" Joanne whispers before being hushed by Collins, who shakes his head slowly. Deciding that I have to be the one to take charge of this situation, I stride over to Roger, gripping his elbow and turning him to face me. He looks like he wants to laugh at me, and that makes me furious.

"Roger." I hiss at him, barely holding my anger in check. "Are you drunk?" He looks amused.

"Hell, no." he responds. I look at him closely, noting the strange gleam in his eyes.

"No. You're not." I continue to whisper. "I know drunk Roger and you aren't him. This Roger is…" Suddenly, the way he looks, the smell on my scarf, and the odd experience three days ago all make sense. How did I not recognise it before? I saw this enough times two – nearly three – years ago. I can't hold my anger in any more. "Are you high?! Jesus Christ, Rog, I thought you were done with that! After last time!" My voice has grown noticeably louder, and I am working hard to block out the shocked gasps from behind me, but it is impossible to block out Roger's shrill response.

"You never get 'done with that', Mark! 'That' is always there! It always will be! Why can't you get that through your thick skull?" He turns to the room, meeting Mimi's eyes briefly as she smiles at him. God, was she high too? I can't think straight, especially as Roger chooses this moment to scream at the top of his lungs: "I want this!" No, you don't, I think frantically. You really don't need this again. I have to take action. Now. I grab Roger's arm and drag him to the bathroom. He kicks and shouts the whole way, but I refuse to let go. He has to see. I slam the door, holding it shut with Roger on the inside, as I stand outside trying not to look at anyone. They didn't see all of this last time. Not even Maureen really knows what he was like.

"Mark! What the hell do you think you're doing?" The door shudders in its frame as Roger throws himself against it, but I hold firm. "Mark!"

"You promised, Roger!" I am angry, of course I am, but I'm also scared, terrified for my best friend, and it's suddenly hard not to cry. "You worked so hard! Damn it, Rog-" My voice breaks, and I stop to gulp in deep lungfuls of air, hoping it will help. Roger takes this as his cue to start shouting again.

"I told you, Mark! You don't get DONE! Never! That's not how addiction works, remember?!" A low blow, and one that hits home. I can feel tears on my cheeks, but I have to keep trying. I can't give up on him.

"You had beaten it!" I gasp. "You did so well! Are you going to throw it all away for a quick thrill? Give up what we fought for? What April died-"

The door flies open at the mention of Roger's old love, taking me by surprise. It hits me in the face sending me sprawling backwards to crash into the opposite wall. My glasses spin off in the opposite direction and the world becomes blurred. I'm vaguely aware that Roger has grabbed Mimi and gone, and that my nose should hurt like hell, but I'm numb. The moment the door slams behind my best friend, I'm swamped by Collins, Joanne and Maureen.

"Give him some space, guys." I hear Collins say, before his figure, fuzzy through lack of spectacles, crouches next to me. I stare at him blankly. "Mark? You ok?" I have no words. What could I say? They saw what just happened. "Mark? Talk to me." I try, I really do, but the second I open my mouth to speak the cool veneer I've been working on for years disappears, and I find myself bursting into tears. "Ok." Collins' low voice mutters as his gentle hands lift me to my feet. "It's ok. Here, let's get you cleaned up and into bed. Things will be better in the morning." Will they? I don't know if I can do this again, go through the things I did last time all over again. I let Collins lead me to my room, shuffling blindly on wobbly legs as he supports me. I sink onto the bed and feel him dabbing at my face with a damp cloth. As I fall into a pained oblivion I hear his quiet words to Joanne and Maureen – "I'll check on him in the morning. He's going to have a killer headache. Let's leave him to sleep." – and the sound of the loft door sliding shut on the world.

**So. I hope you liked. Apologies again that it's been so long. I'll try very hard to not let it happen again. Like I said, no excuses. Also, apologies if the grammar isn't fantastic in this chapter. I've written this up on a library computer and my time is running out, so I'm starting to rush a little bit. Until next time. Ciao Bohemians! xxx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Hi again! Ok, so from now on these chapters are all going to be from Mark's POV, for reasons that will become very clear very quickly. I promised quicker uploads, and I hope to fulfil that promise, so here goes nothing… Also, on a rereading of this I realise that Marker could be implied if you squint, but choosing whether to see it as a best friends thing or something else is entirely up to you, dear reader.**

**Mark's POV (until further notice)**

There's a loud, insistent noise drumming in my ears. I crack my eyelids open with some difficulty, wincing as daylight hits my pupils. God, my head feels like it has a herd of impolite elephants living inside, and my nose is buzzing with pain. What the hell is that noise? It sounds like the door, but that would require moving from my bed. Maybe if I close my eyes go back to sleep whoever it is will give up and go away. Please? Apparently, I'm not that lucky, because the banging gets louder, slamming into my bruised mind in sharp waves. Damn. I'm going to have to get up. I feel around blindly for my glasses, finding them by the bed, where Collins must have left them last night. Shoving them onto my face haphazardly, I push aside blankets I don't remember covering myself in and rise to my feet, reeling with a sudden wave of dizziness. Staggering through the apartment, holding my head in one hand while steadying myself on the wall with the other, I pull open the door and am suddenly wide awake and alert.

On the other side of the door stands Mimi. She looks a fright; her hair is sticking up in a thousand different directions and last night's make up is smeared across her face. But most disturbing is the fact that she's crying. Not just crying either. Big, messy tears are rolling down her cheeks and her tiny frame is racked by huge juddering sobs that leave her gasping for breath. I have never seen Mimi like this, ever, and it scares me more than I would like to admit.

"Mimi?" I ask gently. She looks terrified, and I briefly wonder if Roger has done something he's going to regret later. "Meems?" I stretch out a tentative hand to touch her shoulder, but she jerks away from the connection, wrapping her arms around herself and babbling incoherently.

"Mark. Thank God! It's Roger. I…"

"Mimi?" I interject carefully, casting my mind back to three years ago and the things Roger did when he wasn't really aware of himself. "Has he … hurt you?"

"No! God, no! He…" She breaks down in noisy sobs once more, fighting to get the words out. "He … We … got drunk … last night. He said … to forget … I … thought it … helped."

Piecing together her broken sentences I mentally recoil. Were the drugs her fault? And I blamed Roger. What have I done? What has _she _done? My blood runs cold and I look her square in the eye as I voice my next question, icy anger in my tone.

"Mimi? Where's Roger? Is he ok?" She stares at her feet, avoiding eye contact and I shake her, hard, to regain her attention. She shakes her head and I freeze. "Mimi!" I demand.

"I … I don't know. He … too much. I … he … I tried … but … wont … get up. Can't … wake … up." I am running before she finishes. She tries to follow but I turn to her with a snarl.

"No! You did this!" I scream. "Get the hell out of here! Now! I swear to God, Mimi, if I see you anywhere near this building again I will hurt you!" I race down the stairs, leaving Mimi in shocked silence, and fling open the door to their apartment.

Taking in the mess of discarded bottles and used needles, I cross swiftly to the bead curtain that acts as a bedroom door, brushing it aside. Roger is lying face down on the bed, silent and unmoving. I sprint to him, throwing myself onto the other side of the bed so that I can turn him over. Rolling him gently onto his back, I brush strands of hair out of his face and blink back tears. Roger, the constant pain-in-the-ass in my life, my best friend, is unresponsive. I shake him in vain, trying to rouse him, and then I notice the colour of his face. His skin is white, deathly pale, and his lips … his lips are blue. Shit! I open his mouth to check for obstructions, using the recent first aid training I though might come in handy but hoped I'd never need, and find nothing. It's a mixed blessing, meaning that he hasn't choked on anything, but that he hasn't thrown up to clear his system either. I frantically search for a pulse, for any sign of life. Again, nothing. I panic.

Calm down, Mark, I tell myself. You can do this. You know you can. You have to, because Roger needs you. Taking a deep, shuddering gulp of air to steady myself in place my hands on Roger's sternum and begin the first cycle of compressions and breaths, talking to him the entire time.

"Come on, Roger." I tell him sternly. "You don't get to do this. Not now. You've got years left. You're gonna go nice and peaceful, with all of us there. Not because of one stupid mistake. Do you hear me?" Hot tears are streaming down my face and my own breathing is becoming laboured. This is hard work, but I can't stop. I hear a muffled curse behind me, but I remain focussed. "You are not doing this to me Roger. I need you. D'you hear? I can't do this without you, Rog. So don't you dare die on me now!" I feel a strong pair of arms grab my shoulders and I shrug them off roughly. Collins' voice is suddenly in my ear.

"Mark? Did you call 911?" God, no. I pause briefly, reflecting on the fact that I am, indeed, an idiot. Of course I should have called 911. What was I thinking? Clearly I wasn't. Sensing my distress, Collins interrupts my thoughts. "It's fine." It's not fine! Can't he see that? "I'll do it. Just … Mark?" I glance at him, see the concern on his face. "Keep going." He whispers. As I restart the compressions I hear Collins pick up the phone, then I blank him out and concentrate on Roger.

At some point Collins offers to help, but I refuse to let him take over, despite the fact that I'm exhausted. The pain in my head has returned and intensified, possibly due to my rapid breathing and pounding heart, but I suppress it, because it will only slow me down. I have to keep going, because without Roger, I mean nothing. So he can't die. He just can't. I'm gasping for air, but I persevere, because I know that he would do exactly the same for me if our roles were reversed.

Suddenly, abruptly, hands grip my arms, pulling me away. Not knowing how to react, I lash out, kicking and punching, and hear a familiar grunt when my blows connect. Collins. "Let me go!" I shout at him, furious that he has stopped me helping Roger. His hold on me tightens as I thrash wildly, and his words fall on my ears unabsorbed.

"Mark. Mark!" he calls. His voice sounds as if it's coming from miles away, but I try to tune in. "Mark! Stop! It's alright." No, it's not. It's anything but alright! Why does he keep insisting otherwise? "The paramedics are here, Mark. They've got him. You did really well, but you have to let them take over." He drags me into the living room, even though I'm still fighting with him to let me go.

"But I have to be there! I have to help! Please!" I beg, continuing to try to pull away. "He needs me!"

"I know, Mark, I know." Collins soothes. "And you have helped. A lot. But right now, the professionals need space to do their job. Ok?" I nod and go limp in Collins' arms, energy spent. I finally allow my pent up emotion to the surface, sobbing brokenly as Collins guides me to the sofa and kneels in front of me. "Look at me." He orders, noticing the direction of my gaze. I pull my eyes away from the bedroom, finding it difficult to watch these strangers work on my best friend, but finding it equally as hard to look anywhere else. "I know it's hard." Collins is telling me. Of course he does. If anyone understands how I feel right now, it's him. When he lost Angel … I moan and drop my head in my hands, but he forces me back up to look at him and I can tell that he knows exactly what is running through my mind. "Listen to me real close, Mark. This is not the same. You hear me" I nod mutely. "Do you know why this is not the same?" This time I shake my head, the pain in my skull pounding. "Because you could do something about it. That's why. So you gotta keep your chin up, and be strong. Because he needs you to be strong. Can you do that? For Roger?" I nod again, trying not to glance over at the paramedics. Collins notices my waver and sits next to me, blocking my view. His arms snake around me and I lean into the much-needed comfort, allowing myself to release the pain and sob into his shoulder like a child as he rubs my back and mutters quiet reassurances in my ear.

**There you go. Writing this in the library again, so apologies for any errors. Just so you know, I'm no medical expert, so you'll have to bear with me. I did first aid training, but it was about three years ago and I've luckily never had to use it, so I'm a little rusty on the know-how. Try to ignore any blatant mistakes I might make in this – or any future – chapters. Also, I realise that Mark may not be entirely the character he is in the musical, but I figure he would change a bit after the blow-up that is 'Halloween/What You Own' and show a bit more on the surface instead of paddling like a duck underneath. I hope I didn't screw this up too bad, and I hope you don't hate me for leaving it here. I shouldn't take too long to upload the next chapter … or I might leave it a while to wind you all up. Depends how evil I feel. Mwhahahahahaha! Until next time. Adios, amigos!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**So. This is the last chapter I've got written. I was planning on waiting until I had a few more reviews before I published this one, to keep you all in suspense, but I changed my mind. Mainly because I've only had one new review since I posted chapter 6 (shame on you all. Apart from DistrictTobias8, who is awesome. But is also my sister, and still only left a smiley, so doesn't really count either. Wait, that means I've had NO new reviews. Where are you people?!). I hope you like this chapter. It was really hard to write, personally. Here goes nothing…**

**Mark's POV**

This endless waiting is killing me. For all I know it could be killing – no. Don't think like that, Mark. Don't let yourself think like that. Organise the facts. Edit the footage. Sort it all out in your head. Chronologically. So that it makes sense. What exactly happened? What do I remember?

I remember Collins. He wouldn't let me go in the ambulance with Roger, said it would only stress me out more. He was probably right. I remember watching as the burly paramedics manoeuvred Roger down the stairs on a stretcher and pulled away with a squeal of brakes. I remember looking back and seeing Mimi framed in the window of my apartment, and a moment of pure, cold anger. I remember a numb subway ride to the hospital, sitting frozen beside Collins, aware that my red-rimmed eyes and dour expression were attracting some strange glances, as the East Village raced above our heads. I definitely remember arriving at the hospital and realising that neither of us has medical insurance. I don't remember how Collins solved that, but he must have, because the next thing I remember is being taken to a small waiting room. Then the waiting began. At some point the ache in my head – irritated by the constant noise and fluorescent lights – became so intense that I curled in on myself; face buried in my arms and hands clamped over my ears. Collins asked someone to take a look at me and concussion and shock were mentioned, but I didn't have time for any of that. In the end they were forced to compromise, with painkillers that took the edge off and a promise that I would let Collins keep an eye on me. Then there was just time. Empty, awkward time with no news and nothing to say.

And now here we are. I am crammed into a small, plastic chair, and I know my back will scream at the insult later. Collins is pacing the tiny room as I gnaw on my nails in frustration. Maureen and Joanne have arrived and sit beside each other, hands twined together and foreheads touching. Mimi hasn't dared to show her face, which I am slightly grateful for, but it does little to dispel the nervous tension in the air. We've heard nothing for hours. I am hoping that this is a good thing, but my rational brain can't help but to be pessimistic. I am exhausted, but I can't let myself sleep in case someone needs me. I don't remember rattling off Roger's extensive medical history – that I've had memorised for years – but I do vaguely recall telling a doctor what had happened and that he was supposed to be taking AZT. I lower my head to my hands as I wait for news.

The door creaks open and I glance up as a doctor enters the room. He is instantly mobbed, four anxious faces pushed as close as they can get and four concerned voices fighting for dominance. I catch a glimpse of the grim expression and try to withdraw, but Maureen's hands are pressing into my back, preventing retreat. The doctor holds up a hand and we fall into an awkward silence, hardly daring to breathe. He speaks.

"Ok. First things first. Who here is actually the patient's family?" Three other hands are instantly raised beside my own and I realise in that moment just how much I appreciate my friends. The doctor looks disbelieving, but continues nonetheless. "I don't see any point in sugar-coating this. Mr. Davis' condition is still very serious." I feel myself sinking to my knees, but no-one else seems to notice. "We weren't particularly hopeful, I'll admit." My blood runs cold as I anticipate his next words. "However, it would seem that your…" he pauses. " 'brother' is a fighter and we have managed to stabilise him." I let out a breath I wasn't aware I had been holding, raising a shaky hand to my mouth. The doctor is still talking. "On the other hand, the level of heroin in his system is dangerously high, and we won't know the full effects this has had until he wakes up. If he wakes up." He adds, but Collins is already speaking, drowning out the words I didn't need to hear.

"Can we see him?" he asks desperately. "Please?" The doctor nods once, turning and gesturing for us to follow him. Joanne spots me on the floor and squats next to me, placing a supporting hand under my elbow.

"Come on, Mark." She whispers to me. "Get up. I'm sure it's not all that bad. You heard the Doc. Roger's a fighter." I slowly lever myself off the ground on trembling legs and join my friends – my family – now heading down the stark, white corridor to find our fallen brother.

Nearing the room that I guess must contain Roger, the doctor stops us abruptly, spinning to face us.

"Just to warn you. He might look a little … different. But I want you all to remember that everything in that room is there to help Roger. Ok?" We nod mutely. "Good. Now, if you'd like to follow me.." Collins glances at Maureen and Joanne, an unspoken conversation apparently reaching a conclusion as he turns to me.

"Mark. Why don't you go in first? We'll follow in a little while. You can have five minutes." I mutter my thanks and look back at the doctor, steeling myself.

"Let's go." I say resolutely, before I can change my mind.

As soon as I enter the room my resolution flees and I almost back out, but a small nagging voice in the corner of my mind (possibly Roger's voice) tells me to grow up and be a man. I inch towards to bed, struggling to take in the sight of Roger, my strong-minded friend, looking so vulnerable. Wires and tubes emerge from under the blankets and obscure a large part of his face. His hands are white on the covers and rise and fall in time with his chest. His eyes are closed and his hair is swept back from his face. In all of the times I've been in a hospital with Roger, he has never looked like this. I look at the doctor and he reads my question before it can even form into words, carefully describing why the machines are there and what they do.

"It's all very straightforward." He states calmly. "The monitors and wires are there to keep an eye on his vital signs – heart rate, oxygen levels, that kind of thing." I nod slowly, sinking into a blue plastic chair at the side of the bed – a twin to the one in the waiting room – as he continues. "And I know that this looks a little scary," He gestures at a thick tube snaking into Roger's mouth. A tube that I can't stop staring at. "But it's only there temporarily to help him breathe easier. We'll take it out as soon as we think he's able to manage on his own. Ok?" I mutter a semi-positive response and the doctor leaves. Deciding that I don't care how embarrassing it is for either of us, I scoot my chair closer and grip Roger's hand in both of my own, taking instant relief in the fact that his skin is no longer icy to the touch, and settle in for a long day.

"Please wake up, Rog." I whisper, gaze locked on his face.

Hours pass. Days pass. Joanne tells me to go home. Maureen tells me I look like Hell. Collins tells me I need rest and a hot meal. I ignore them all. I stay. I want to. I need to. I need to be here when he wakes up. Because he wake up. Despite the fact that there has been very little change, I know he will. He has to.

The breathing tube has been removed and Roger is most definitely stable, but he still hasn't opened his eyes. I am alone with him. Joanne and Collins are at work, and Maureen decided she couldn't bear to hang around any more. I feel my own lids drift shut and lay my head on my arms, one hand still clasped around his. Five minutes sleep won't hurt.

I am woken abruptly. The light in the room has changed, telling me I must have been asleep for some time. It feels as though an insect is walking along the back of my hand and my neck creaks as I look down, ready to shoo in away. What I see stops me in my tracks. It's not an insect at all. Roger's fingers are flickering against my skin, his hand squeezing my own. I fail to contain a gasp, relief and disbelief battling for space in my mind. I lean towards him, tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear, and murmur his name softly.

"Roger? Can you hear me?" I prod gently. "Rog?" His hand clenches again, tighter than before, and I tear up as his eyes flutter open. His gaze gradually focuses on me and his lips form one, almost soundless word.

"Mark." I nod quickly, barely holding in the emotion that builds at seeing his eyes for the first time in days.

"Yeah. It's me. I'm here." I reply, hearing the huskiness in my voice. I can see that it's an effort for him to stay awake, so I hurry to reassure him. "It's ok. You can sleep. You're safe here. You're gonna be fine, Rog." His head makes a miniscule movement that I take to be a nod. As his eyes fall closed in a much more natural sleep I just make out two more words, breathed out with the little energy he can muster. Words that make me cry and smile simultaneously. Words that mean I am forgiven for the way I reacted, and that I did the right thing. Words that mean that Roger, my Roger, is most definitely back.

"Thank you." I grip his hand tight and lay my head back on the bed as we both give in to exhaustion.

**So, there it is. I hope you liked it. I'm no medical expert so please ignore any glaringly obvious errors. Also, I'm self-betaing, so all grammar and/or spelling mistakes are completely my fault. Please review for two reasons: 1. I need to know if you enjoyed this. I think it turned out half decent and I'd like to know if you feel the same. 2. I need to know whether to leave it here or continue with the recovery process and possibly Roger's detox and withdrawal. Let me know! Reviews are life people! And they're damned addictive!**

**Thank you so much for sticking with my mindless ramblings. Love you all.**

**Till next time: Actual reality! Act up! Fight AIDS!**


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